In All Fairness
by EvilFuzzy9
Summary: Fear of loss and care for a thing most precious which cannot be found might drive to ill temper a mind that should otherwise be content, and satiety in one's own may ward a soul against the dragon sickness. In such a case might parley seem less bitter, and generosity come at greater ease. Yet in pride and stubbornness Elves and Dwarves are too alike to get along without quarrel.
**In All Fairness**

A _Hobbit_ oneshot

by

EvilFuzzy9

* * *

Rating: K

Genre: General

Characters/Pairings: Thorin, Bard, Thranduil

Summary: Fear of loss and care for a thing most precious which cannot be found might drive to ill temper a mind that should otherwise be content, and satiety in one's own may ward a soul against the dragon sickness. In such a case might parley seem less bitter, and generosity come at greater ease. Yet in pride and stubbornness, if nothing else, Elves and Dwarves are too much alike to get along without quarrel.

* * *

Thorin Oakenshield strode out from the gap in the front gate of the Lonely Mountain, an opening altered and contrived so as to be wide enough only for one man to pass through at a time. He was arrayed in mail of the finest dwarf fashion, a very kingly hauberk of steel blazoned with a gold crest, and studded besides with many precious gems. He bore no weapon, however.

Instead he carried only an orb, a stone or jewel of some sort in his hand, held aloft as if in token of parley. But it was not being presented to the Lakemen who stood before the gates. No, rather he was brandishing it much like a proud captain might raise a sword on high that he valued above many soldiers. He was not armed, but he did not come humbly, either.

In quiet wonder, the Lakemen stared at the gem in Thorin's hand. It was very beautiful, and the way it caught the light was dazzling, and there seemed to be an inner light also that emanated from its heart. The least hardy of their number were daunted by the sight of the gem, and by the old dwarf's confident stride, and those with less sure hearts found themselves afeared.

All but the least wise and cunning of their number were made cautious by the way the dwarf came out from the gate. He greeted them the way a great lord might address a disorganized peasant rabble that came armed with crude pitchforks before tall gates made strong by many great warriors and cunning devices. Only a few of the men of Esgaroth were untroubled, either in faith of the dwarf's honor, or in ignorance of his kind's ferocity in protecting what they called their own.

Still, Thorin did not seem hard or disdainful. His face betrayed nothing of his thought, but at the very least he had not greeted them armed or in full gear of war. He lowered the gem, the Arkenstone of Thráin, and he stowed it close to his breast. Deeply set eyes glinted as they passed over the host of the Lakemen and Wood-elves before the mountain.

In a low, sonorous voice, the venerable dwarf called out.

"Where is the one called Bard, thrice worthy bane of Smaug?" he asked courteously. "And who here, also, speaks for the Men of the Lake?"

"Bard!" cried the Lakemen. "Bard the Bowman! He shall speak for us."

At this, a tall and grim-faced man came forward. A bow of good, if not especially _fine_ make was slung over his shoulder. He bore no quiver, however, having left it behind, and halting a pace from Thorin he held his hands out with the palms forward to show that they were empty, a token of peace and parley.

"I am he," said Bard. "It was indeed I who slew the dragon, although I was too late to save the town from ruin. But I would not take sole credit for this deed, still, even had I saved us from all loss and sorrow. Were it not for the thrush which came to me and whispered of the gap in Smaug's armor, I would never have known where to shoot, and my final arrow would surely have been spent and wasted on a hopeless shot."

To the crowd's amazement, and no small confusion, Thorin smiled.

"A thrush, you say?" he remarked. "Yes, I think I know the bird of which you speak. There was one such creature sitting on the doorstep when Master Baggins, whose services have earned him renown to the end of days among my people, shared tell of the chink in Smaug's jewelled mail on the left of his foul breast, a secret which he discovered only at great cost and personal risk. Yes, I think I know exactly what thrush you speak of, Bard Girion's heir!"

At this, Bard looked on Thorin with surprise and amaze.

"You know of that, also?" said he.

"Does this surprise you? Roäc son of Carc, wise and blessed among all the ravens of Erebor, told us of your deed and Smaug's ruin," said Thorin. "It is no secret among the Lakemen that you claim direct descent from the kings of Dale, and the ravens see and hear much. A great debt do I owe you, Bard of the Black Arrow, and rest assured that the friendship between our peoples is redoubled by your heroism! A handsome bounty shall I give you for slaying the dragon. Weregild, also, shall be paid in fair measure to all the survivors of Laketown, and they may take shelter in the halls of my fathers against the coming of winter."

"You speak most generously, lord," said Bard, and he bowed politely. "I am at your service, and your family's. Yet I must confess that I did not come here expecting to find you or your company alive. Still, oft it is said that happiest is the reunion least hoped. You are most generous in your speech, and if you prove in deed only half as charitable as your word, still I should be grateful if at least the people of the town are fed and sheltered until new homes can be built."

Thorin nodded.

"Yes, yes. Come, then!" he said. "What were your losses in lives and property? Had I and my company gotten the chance, we would have endeavored to end the beast ourselves, but only when it was too late did we learn of the gap in Smaug's armor, and the only weapon in our possession fit to slay the worm had been stolen from me by the woodland king, whom I know to be among you with a number of his people."

"Pray do not speak ill of the Elves, or of their king," said Bard. "Whatever wrong they have done you and your kin, to my own people they have given only succor in our need. Long have they been our friends, true and faithful."

"Perhaps," said Thorin fairly. "But still, I mark that they come armed with spears and bows as if expecting battle, and that ere turning aside to the aid of your people they had first come marching in force to the mountain. I do not doubt that they learned first of Smaug's death from the birds, and only later when they crossed paths with your messengers did they turn to meet the Lakemen. Yet why then were they coming here in the first place, I wonder?"

His tone betrayed much of the cause his heart guessed.

Bard went briefly silent. He looked over at Thranduil's people. Thorin's words were not false, he perceived, although they were also perhaps not quite fairly spoken.

"The elves are a good and wise people," the bowman said at last.

"So would many say," Thorin replied. "Yet less good do they seem to me and my kin, whom they imprisoned wrongly. Succor they gave to their neighbors, perhaps, with whom they have trade and a material interest, yet what did they give to lost and starving wanderers within their own realm? Only mistrust and abuse. Nay, good Bard! To the Lakemen who harbored and aided us, we will give weregild for all that they lost in the dragon's attack. To Bard who slew the beast, Bard heir of Girion who was friend of my grandfather, we shall also give a fifteenth share in the mountain's wealth, and honor equal even to Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf the Grey, without whom we never could have come this far."

When they heard the name of Gandalf, the Lakemen were newly amazed, and the Elves reacted also. The former looked on Thorin with wonder, but the latter with mingled fear and suspicion. The Grey Pilgrim's deeds were known far and wide, to the northmen as whispered rumors, but to Elves as something much more concrete.

It bothered some of the folk of Mirkwood to think they had not been forewarned of the Dwarves. While this was perhaps not unlike the wizard, it was still irksome in a way. Mithrandir was a friend to them and their king, and they remembered also many of the deeds he had performed over the long years, and it felt like a show of poor trust that he had told them nothing.

King Thranduil now came forward amidst these doubts and new murmurings, and the dwarves within the mountain hailed him with angry and unfriendly calls. They were slow to forgive, and remembered all too well their treatment at his hands and his people's. But Thorin silenced his kin with a raised hand, and he greeted Thranduil.

"Hail, Elven-king. _Well met_ I shall not say, for ill was our last meeting, and little hope do I have that this meeting should go any better. But still, may I not ask what business you have before the gates of my fathers?" he said, speaking as politely as pride and memory of imprisonment would allow.

"Only to ask what part Mithrandir— _Gandalf_ , as you name him—had in your journey."

Thorin gave Thranduil a look that was very difficult to read. It was, at least, not friendly.

"A chief one," he said at length in a dignified tone. "By right he should have an equal share in all the treasures of the mountain, though our ways parted ere the eaves of your forest, for he was our guide and advisor, and it was on his recommendation that we hired Master Baggins. For that alone the Grey Wizard would have our gratitude, but there were many other services that he also gave us.

"Twice he delivered us from peril, once from trolls in the Trollshaws, whom he turned to stone when all our hope had been lost, and once from the goblins in the Misty Mountains, and their king he slew with the Foe-hammer of Turgon. Twice also he led us to safe havens and places of rest after danger; once to the house of Master Elrond in Rivendell, whose courtesy I praise most highly, and once to the home of Beorn the Skin-changer outside Mirkwood, most worthy master of beasts and enemy to all evil things.

"A map and key he also rendered unto me, last heirlooms of my father Thráin, who suffered torment in Dol Guldur and died far from the sun within the bounds of your black and accursed forest, artefacts without which we would never have found entry into these halls by a secret way of my forebears, a way that was destroyed at the last in the tumult of Smaug's untimely flight. Our course as well was chosen by him, and it was the counsel of his wisdom which led us on our journey from the first."

Thorin finished his ennumeration of Gandalf's deeds with a flourish of his hand, and a fiery sun-glimmer of the Arkenstone shone on his mail. The glow of it fell over the faces of Bard and Thranduil, the latter of whom had a look of dismay on his face. The Elven-king perceived the truth behind Thorin's words, being wise and insightful after the fashion of the Sindar. It troubled him therefore to hear how much the Grey Pilgrim had aided these dwarves.

Thranduil had a subtle mind, and knowing now that this errand had been planned by Mithrandir made him wonder. Shrewdly, he guessed that there might be a reason for this beyond simple charity.

He thought of Dol Guldur and the Necromancer. Thorin named this only in passing, but to Thranduil they seemed more concerning than any talk of dragons or dwarf-gold, for that was an evil in the former home of his people, and a power which had driven his folk northward past _Emyn-nu-Fuin_ to the stronghold underground where his courts were now held. Long had the shadow of that fear troubled Thranduil and his people, and the portents of ill fortunes in Mirkwood and the lands about it weighed ever more heavily on their hearts.

Much it seemed he could guess of Mithrandir's designs in these evil days. Thranduil knew what he himself feared the power in Dol Guldur to be, and what he suspected of the Necromancer's true nature, though he dared not speak of it openly. Too near still to his heart were the sorrows of the Second Age, and too fearsome even to the Wood-elves did this prospect seem.

Thorin Oakenshield had no idea of how great these matters were, in which Smaug and Erebor played only one part, however compelling it may have seemed to those who dwelled in this corner of Middle-earth. If the fears of Mithrandir and many others among the wise proved true, then the Lonely Mountain might prove a crucial bastion to the West should the worst evil come to pass, and the death of Smaug would rob the Enemy of a terrible weapon, if the Necromancer in Dol Guldur was indeed Sauron Gorthaur of old.

But these Dwarves guessed nothing of those matters. Long had it been since Thranduil could tell himself that Dol Guldur was a danger his people could deal with, once they had simply had the time to assemble their strength. Many years had passed since the coming of the Necromancer, a span of time that even the Elves called long, yet the people of Mirkwood were little more numerous, and all their arms and crafts still did not seem equal to the task of driving out the evil things in those dark dungeons, and cleansing Amon Lanc of the malice which held it.

The Elves of Mirkwood could not by themselves conquer Dol Guldur. The strength within them seemed in these days only just enough to keep the shrunken bounds of their northerly realm against encroachment by spiders and other foul things, and that strength grew little if at all over the years. More accurately it seemed to be dwindling, and that thought above all lay black on the Elven-king's heart. It was a taint on all the joys of his land and his people, a quiet bitterness that they could not wholly cover with any song or feast.

Erebor was a realm in exile for the Longbeards, the race of Durin. Nameless evil drove them from Moria long ago, Hadhodrond their ancient home. In the Lonely Mountain they found a new home, but a century ago that too was taken from them. Gundabad where Durin woke in the Elder Days was lost to the Naugrim in ancient times. Nogrod and Belegost were sunk beneath the Great Sea and could not be retaken.

A very small and distant part of Thranduil felt sympathy for the Dwarves. Again and again they had lost their homes to evil or destruction, orcs or dragons or other older and blacker things, and few and meager dwellings had they now in the lands of Eriador and Rhovanion. Too similar was their plight, in a way, to that of his own people.

Yet he felt little kindness for these folk, still, remembering also the Sack of Doriath, of which his father had ever spoken in sadness. These foolish creatures had no concerns outside their own treasures. They had little care for the growing things Thranduil loved, birds and beasts and mighty trees, and however skillful they were in the crafting of gems and fair metals, too often had their works of old brought about evil or loss for his own people.

The craft of Eöl had been learned from the Dwarves, and Eöl was the father of Maeglin whose lust proved the doom of Gondolin. It was the Dwarves also who slew Thingol in greed for the Nauglamir, which they reforged at his bidding to house the Silmaril, and that tragedy proved the end of Doriath.

Naugrim lived brief lives by the measure of Elves, a span no greater than that of the Númenóreans of old, if more than lesser Men, and they were also less inclined to wisdom as Thranduil judged it. Too quick were they to enmity, to greed, to grudge, and to evil. Little better were they than Men, jealous of stone and metal and gem, ungenerous and prideful beyond their right, gaining little wisdom and fathering sons even less wise. No matter how good a single Dwarf lord might prove, he would in the end die and be replaced by another who was most likely less virtuous.

If Thorin was wise, he did little to show it in Thranduil's opinion. The Dwarf was too proud, too stubborn, too self-willed. He treated fairly enough with the Lakemen, perhaps, but still he did so haughtily. He was too condescending in his manner, who had been a half-starved beggar only recently. The only thought of him and his kin had been to reclaim their own and avenge their own, caring little for others who might suffer as a result. Thranduil thought poorly of this.

Yet, still...

These dwarves were fools, but it seemed that there may have indeed been a good in their errand beyond the guess of most. However just Thranduil may have felt himself at the time in apprehending this company who had walked paths tread only by evil things in these days, troubling his people on whose hearts lay the shadow of Dol Guldur so heavily, he perceived in this moment that he may have done harm unforeseen.

Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver of Gondolin, was indeed a weapon of such rare quality and virtue as could, perhaps, have pierced the chink in Smaug's breast and killed the worm under the mountain before he could rise to trouble the lands adjacent. Certainly it was very rare for dwarves to slay dragons, as a rule; in history and song, most such deeds belonged to Men, then Elves, who usually proved more fit to such deeds. It was not impossible, however.

Dwarf-king Azaghâl of Belegost was able to wound Glaurung deeply in _Nirnaeth Arnoediad_ , the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, though he was crushed beneath the dragon and slain. A modest number of dragons also had fallen to dwarven axes over the long years, even a handful of the flying fire-drakes of which Smaug had been chiefest in this age, although such victories had usually come at a considerable cost.

Furthermore, the race of Durin that had called Erebor home was accounted great in the measure of Dwarves. They were very hardy and fierce in matters of vengeance, and there was no telling what length they might go to for the promise of such treasures as they accounted rightfully their own. It was not outside belief, at the very least, that Thorin Oakenshield might have dared attempt to kill Smaug, had he still borne a weapon equal to the task.

Was that why Orcrist had been in the dwarf's possession? Had Mithrandir found the Orc-cleaver of Gondolin and given it Thorin so that he might slay Smaug, or at the very least wound and weaken him such that another might then more easily accomplish the task?

These and similar thoughts troubled the mind of Thranduil for long moments of silence.

Considering Thorin slowly and carefully, he spoke at last.

"If your errand had Mithrandir's blessing, you should have told me," he said. "The Grey Pilgrim is a friend of my people, and I trust his counsel in most matters. Friends of his would receive welcome in my lands, if they only declared themselves and their purpose."

"So you say," Thorin replied. "But it is easy to make such claims afterward, when all is known and settled. Moreover, it cannot be mistaken that you and your people were coming to take the unguarded wealth of my forebears. The eyes of the ravens are sharp, Elven-king, and you made little secret of your march."

"To most, that would suggest a good and honest cause that need fear no discovery," said Thranduil testily.

"Or greed beyond the counsel of prudence," said Thorin ungraciously.

Thranduil's eyes flashed.

"Do not speak to me of _greed_ , Thorin Oakenshield. It was not I who roused the dragon in search of treasure."

"Treasure, you say?" Thorin's long, white beard bristled, and his deeply lined face seemed to have been carved in stone. Dark eyes glittered. "Nay, not treasure only. We had wealth enough to speak of in the Blue Mountains, modest though our dwellings were in comparison to the rightful halls of our fathers, and hard and ignobly though we labored to build it. Were it for gold alone that I came, I would have left the dragon be."

Bard watched the two kings gaze at one another, and he marveled at the sharpness of their glance and the fire in their words. They seemed to duel with eye and speech, and it was as though a line of fire met between them and smouldered deep, glowing red.

"So you say," said Thranduil coolly. "And perhaps it is so. Mithrandir, at least, would not have aided you if gold was the only end of your quest. Still, you speak unfairly. My people and I are not robbers of tombs; we do not disgrace the dead to plunder mere trinkets, no matter what folly led them to their unhappy end. Our purpose rather was to see if Smaug was destroyed in truth. The dragon was ever a weight on our minds, if less near and pressing than the Necromancer in the south of Mirkwood."

Those close by shuddered at the mention of that black name, knowing by rumor of the brooding malice that dwelt in Dol Guldur. Thorin and Bard alone of the listeners did not quail, though a fierce light kindled in the eyes of the former, and the latter turned grayer in the face.

For a while Thorin and the Elven-king strove in thought and glance each against the other, proud and masterful both, and more alike in heart and will than either would ever admit. At length, Thorin closed his hand over the Arkenstone at his breast.

"And then like carrion birds," said he, "once you saw the ruin of the dragon, you would have helped yourselves to the spoils and left us to rot in barren halls picked clean of all my people's work."

"Please, lord!" cried Bard. "Speak not so unkindly, or so heedless of Thranduil's words. Did he not speak against such acts and swear you the opposite? I am certain he would have dealt fairly and justly, had he come to find you and your company dead in the mountain. I know him to be a good and wise ruler."

"The Lakemen I would trust to deal fairly," said Thorin. "I trust that Bard would have been wise and honest in handling the wealth of Erebor and the claims of my people upon it. He and his folk have proven themselves a good folk and praiseworthy, but the Wood-elves have ever coveted the craft of my people, and they have not always been so good or wise in their lust for our works."

Thranduil gave Thorin a cold look. At once his mind turned to the Nauglamir, the Sack of Doriath, and the murder of Elu Thingol who had been the chief and king of all his race.

"Do not lay such a grave discredit to your name, Thorin Oakenshield," he said gravely. "The wise speak only of that which they know."

"Durin's race is not bereft of lore," said Thorin hotly in turn, a glitter of red flaming to life in his eyes. "Men of these latter days might forget, and our ancient homes and records might be lost to evil and decay, but still we preserve much of our traditions from the Elder Days. I know that your people have never loved mine. You scorn us or pity us, and you deal with us as with fools or children. Little courtesy have Elves of your race shown even to the most worthy lords of the Dwarves, and you judge us wicked who merely uphold the laws of our people, right and just by our measure. You do not hear our words as those of equals. You heed us not save when it serves to please you, when our speech is of praise or courtesy, and in return still you dishonor us with rude names. Ugly, you call us, _'the stunted people'_ , unlovely Naugrim whose only worth is in the fair things they make, and the wealth that can be had from them for ransom of food and drink."

Thorin's beard wagged furiously.

"You accord my race less honor than Men with half the right. You dismiss as crooked and greedy the noble house of Durin, seeing us as no better than mortals, though we are an ancient people and worthy. Yet what does the treatment of the Petty-dwarves matter, whom your forebears hunted like beasts? What does the friendship of Moria and Eregion in days of yore matter, or the many deeds of my line in all the wars against the Dark Powers? Durin fought alongside Elendil and Oropher and Gil-galad, but the songs of your people recall naught of his valor, although his host was little less than those of the Men and Elves in number, and rather greater in its armament."

Thranduil's eyes flashed.

"You expect much who has done little to earn it," he said sharply. "Your fathers were good and worthy? Perhaps they were, and perhaps they were not, but you are not they: you are Thorin only. I might speak praise at least of the hardihood you showed in war, for you fought the orcs in Nanduhirion before the borders of the land of my kin, slaying many of their number and rightly earning the name Oakenshield. As a warrior you might be called worthy, but little have you done to show quality as a king, and even less as my _equal_."

"Elves think too highly of themselves," said Thorin hotly. "I treat you only as your treatment of me deserves. Rather better, I should say, for I have not had you clapped in irons and taken off to the dungeons, but I am not uncharitable. As I said before, Bard and the Lakemen may take shelter in the halls of my fathers until new homes have been built for them, and in that they will have the aid of me and my kin, if they wish for it. I have sent messages to my people, and many of them will be coming hence to make these lands rich and prosperous once more. And should the Elven-king come as a friend of Bard, then he may take bread under the mountain and do trade with us. For if Thranduil wants dwarf-gold for his hoard, then he will barter fairly for it, and be paid well enough for what he can sell us in provender."

"Yet not as well as it deserves, I should warrant," said Thranduil sourly.

"As well as you deserve," said Thorin. "If not quite so well as the goods might earn if sold by another."

Thranduil scowled. "Why should I treat with you when you give me such insult?"

"I could say the same to you," Thorin growled.

Bard sighed longsufferingly.

Too well now did he understand what the old folk meant when they said _'like elves and dwarves.'_

* * *

A/N: This oneshot was started at least a month ago, but it's taken me a somewhat disproportionate length of time to complete. It is basically a what-if piece where Thorin finds the Arkenstone and doesn't go so mad looking for it, and actually treats somewhat fairly at the first negotiation. More particularly, it was basically an excuse to explore Thorin's more genuine grievances against Thranduil and just have the two kings sniping at each other.

Perhaps obviously, this is almost entirely bookverse, with few if any cues taken from the movies. Not because I dislike the movies (because I _don't_ , although BoFA was kind of dull and drawn out, and what they did with Dain was honestly disappointing) but rather more just because my inclination is to favor the canon of original sources over the canon of adaptations, when the two are at odds.

But I actually liked the idea of an Elf x Dwarf romance, for instance, and even if Tauriel's bit in the third movie was less impressive than might have been hoped from the build up, I did not and do not begrudge her addition. Admittedly, I was once a guilty GimGala shipper, and even now I sometimes entertain the wistful headcanon of Gimli having a relationship with an elleth of some sort in the West, so perhaps I'm biased in that regard. That's one of the things the original Legendarium never really touched on, though I find it quite interesting, if only because Elves and Dwarves seem to be closer in fate than Elves and Men, and also less distantly sundered in death.

Ah, but I digress. This was a fun idea in the conception, and I enjoyed writing it for my part. It may thus be hoped that you, the readers, likewise enjoy it. If so, please tell. ;)

 **Updated:** 5-18-16

 **TTFN and R &R!**

– — ❤


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